


The Unpractical Matter of the Ghost of Bag End

by greeneggs101



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Family Relationships - Freeform, Gen, Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5744743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeneggs101/pseuds/greeneggs101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hobbits were known to be practical. Everything was easily explainable, from a missing pie to a sudden chill in the air. No proper hobbit would dare risk their reputation by even suggesting a supernatural explanation for something that had a practical answer. And of course, with out a doubt, ghosts simply, irrevocably, definitely did not exist.</p><p>Too bad no one thought to tell that to the ghost currently haunting Bag End.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unpractical Matter of the Ghost of Bag End

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy, though editing was done by me, and as it has been six months between when I started the story and when I ended, the tone and writing style may have changed throughout and I have tried to edit them to sort of make a cohesive story line. Please let me know if there are any glaring mistakes.

Frodo is fairly sure it began when Lobelia attempted to enter Uncle Bilbo’s home without permission. 

Of course, that happened a number of years before Frodo was even born, and even then he hadn’t heard about it till Pippin and Merry came running down the lane with the news that Uncle Bilbo’s smial was haunted by a ghost. 

The story, told with Pippin and Merry’s usual exaggeration and excited gestures, goes that when Lobelia attempted to enter Mr. Bilbo’s home uninvited (only to make sure he was uninjured or dead, she would defend when questioned) she found the door unlocked and at a mere touch had swung open on its own. Then, as she (very hesitantly, of course, she claimed) walked over the threshold, the door suddenly slammed shut, nearly hitting her perfectly trimmed toes.

Lobelia of course also claimed that Bilbo, in a fit of rudeness (or perhaps even madness! she would whisper with barely concealed excitement) had slammed the door on her. 

After which, Pippin’s mother had politely reminded Lobelia that Bilbo had been coming up the path when he heard her shouting such profanity at his doorway. It could not have possibly been him that slammed the door, and, Pippin’s mother reasoned, it must have been a stray wind or a slight shifting of the house settling that did it. 

Unless of course, Merry’s mother had added, Lobelia was suggesting that someone, or something, else was living at Bag End, though clearly, it was only Bilbo who occupied those halls.

The very idea that a respectable hobbit, such as Lobelia believed herself to be, would even dare suggest that something as impossible as a ghost would reside in Bag End was so laughable that Lobelia made her exit shortly after, to spare herself further humiliation.

Of course, she didn’t notice the two young fauntlings in the garden who were attempting to make off with their mother’s pies. The fauntlings heard all, and within a week the entire population of young hobbits, and their parents, had heard the story of Lobelia and the “ghost” of Bag End. It was all well and good for a laugh, and gave every parent the opportunity to explain to their young ones that ghosts do not exist and that anything strange that ever happened was always explainable. 

Too bad no one thought to tell that to Mr. Bilbo’s ghost. For indeed, over the next few years, it became clear that something strange went on at Bag End.

Frodo and his friends first noticed it when attempting to make the cookies in Mr. Bilbo’s windowsill disappear. 

Sam, the lookout, had called that Lobelia was making an unexpected visit to Bag End. Deciding that this was just another challenge to their quest, they laid low, knowing that Mr. Bilbo was home as well and would surely open the door and notice them. 

However, when Lobelia knocked on Mr. Bilbo’s door, Bilbo did not open it. Instead, from their spot near the open window, they heard footsteps, and not the usual soft footfalls of hobbits. But heavy thuds that confused Sam and Frodo till Pippin and Merry explained later that they were the sounds of boots hitting the wood floors of hobbit homes. They had known the sound from when Rangers would visit the smials of Tooks and Brandybucks. 

The heavy footsteps raced past the kitchen window, heading towards the door. They also listened as Lobelia’s knocking got louder. Finally, they heard the definite click of a door latch locking and Lobelia’s shouting reached shrieking levels. 

Finally Lobelia left, her footsteps retreating down the lane. Two pairs of eyes watched her leave, while the other two pairs watched inside, trying to get a glimpse of the one who made the heavy footsteps.

“I don’t believe I asked for fauntlings to come to tea.” a voice behind them whispered.

Four cries went up into the air, as they all turned and found Mr. Bilbo crouching near them, a frown on his face, though he clearly was trying to hold back a smile.

Pippin stuffed the cookie in his hand into his mouth. 

Merry looked up with big eyes. “We just thought you’d like some company.”

The other hobbits nodded quickly, and the Bilbo’s smile could be contained no longer. 

“Very well, I shall be beset with the best company a hobbit could ask for.” He led them inside.

Over the course of tea, the four hobbits explored every inch of Bag End, though they could not find any man or dwarf or elf who could have made the loud footsteps. 

Bilbo watched them in amusement, before asking Frodo what they were looking for. 

“For the Ghost of Bag End!” Pippin declared as he raced by. Frodo, himself, hesitated over the words.

“A ghost?”

“Mrs. Sackville-Baggins said that the door slammed on her years ago. And we heard footsteps but no one was there.”

Bilbo seemed to flush a bit. “Ah. Well... I’m sure Lobelia was just telling some stories. Though I don’t think they are very good. Why don’t we all have a snack in the garden and I’ll tell you all a really good story.”

All the hobbits perked up at the thought of a snack so soon after tea, and they sat quietly in the back garden, munching on the cheese and crackers Bilbo laid out. 

That day they learned of the terrible trolls that tried to eat Bilbo and his dwarf friends. 

After that, Frodo found that he and his friends were over at Bilbo’s house more often, either helping him in the garden, or in Merry and Pippin’s case, “Ghost” hunting. They never really gave up on the idea that a ghost had made the heavy footfalls, though Sam long ago reasoned that it had just been the house settling. Frodo never really gave it too much thought. 

After his parents died, he didn’t give it any thought at all. 

Bilbo grew to become a more of a constant parental figure in his life long before Frodo was invited to stay permanently at Bag End. 

“Just think, Frodo!” Merry exclaimed from where he lounged on Frodo’s former bed, munching on a carrot. “You might catch a glimpse of the ghost! That’ll put Pippin into a tizzy! It’ll show him to get ill after falling into the cows’ drinking tough.” 

Frodo huffed out a laugh and set his bag right on Merry’s legs while he continued to pack. “If there is a ghost, I’ll tell him to go haunt you two. Then you’ll be too scared to get into mischief.” 

“We do not get into mischief.”

“Oh really? And I suppose those are not Farmer Maggot’s carrots?” Frodo pointed to the bunch of green and orange that Merry was unsuccessfully hiding in his shirt. 

“We were just liberating them from being turned to stew!” Merry protested.

Frodo just rolled his eyes. He, of course, had long outgrown the fauntling tendances of stealing and believing in superstitions but his younger cousins had yet to outgrow it. 

Together, he and Merry hauled his belongings to Bag End, Bilbo greeting them at the door with a kettle on the stove and a plate of scones waiting. 

While filling up on scones and just a slice (or ten) of pumpernickel bread, Merry asked for Bilbo to retell the story of the trolls, one of his favorites. Bilbo chuckled at the request, but told the story. The tale rarely deviated from the original telling they heard when they were fauntlings; of how Bilbo saved the company of thirteen dwarves by telling the trolls that they weren’t cooking the dwarves properly. 

“I thought for sure Thorin would hang my by my ears when I said that they would have to skin them first. If he managed to chew his way out of the sack he probably would have!” Bilbo chuckled, but Frodo thought he caught a glimpse of sadness in his eyes as well.

“What was the king like?” Merry asked, and Frodo found himself curious as well.

“Oh...well... quite surly and irritable... probably one of the most stubborn beings I’ll ever meet. Absolutely terrible manners when in the presence of people he didn’t like. Mostly elves. Quick to temper, and the language he used! I’m afraid I didn’t understand what language he was using, but I assure you, those words would have been highly inappropriate in any context. Most of the time though, he was quiet and brooding, probably because of the gravity of the quest we were on. But...” Bilbo trailed off, tapping his fingers against the smooth teacup. “He could be kind, when he put thought to it, or when he cared about someone. And he was terribly, ridiculously brave. Quite courageous. And strong. Funny once you got used to a dwarvish sense of humor.” Bilbo half smiled and took a sip of tea.

“But what did he look like?” Merry pressed. “Whenever you talk of him, I picture a man with a grey beard past his belt and a pale wrinkled face, since dwarves just lived in their mountains!”

“Are you sure you’re not just confusing him with Gandalf?” Frodo questioned. Merry through a scone in retaliation. 

“Goodness no!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Have I never described what these dwarves looked like?”

Merry and Frodo both shook their heads and Bilbo sighed. “Well... I better put on another kettle, it may take a while to get through all thirteen.. as I’m sure once I tell you about one you’ll want to know about them all.”

And so they devoured another round of tea and the rest of the pumpernickel Bilbo told them about unusual characteristics of the dwarves themselves, from their unusual style of dress (armor all the time?) to their even more unique hair and beard styles. Bilbo had to draw a few of the styles out, making a rough sketch of a dwarf with three points in his hair and three braids in his beard (Nori) and the dwarf with silly hat and a moustache that twirled up at the end (Bofur). Dwalin, they learned, had very little hair on his head, but he made up for it with strange markings that Bilbo never felt comfortable asking about, nor could ever get an accurate picture of.

“But what of Thorin? I’m sure his beard and hair were more elaborately decorated since he was a king!” Merry deduced. 

Bilbo again gave that half smile that Frodo was starting to recognize. It was a similar expression to the one he wore when hobbits told funny stories of his parents. A bittersweet remembrance, that brought a smile of amusement along with the heartbreak of loss. 

“You’d be wrong, young master Brandybuck.” Bilbo started, pouring himself another cup of tea. “Thorin’s beard was quite short, for a dwarf anyway. He had shorn it after the dragon took the mountain, and refused to grow it back till the mountain was full of dwarves again. And his hair was long and dark, streaked with silver, like cream through black tea. He wore very little adornment in his hair, usually just two small braids that hung in front of his ears, adorned with beads that signified his place in the line of Durin.”

Merry looked disappointed that the king did not have the most elaborate hairstyle, though Frodo thought, with everything else they’ve learned about Thorin Oakenshield today, that the hair style described suited him best. 

Bilbo noticed Merry’s disappointment as well, and offered to draw more detailed drawings of the dwarves to show off to Pippin.

Merry replied so enthusiastically to the idea, that he sloshed the remainder of his tea down Frodo’s shirt. Luckily, the tea had long gone cold, caught up in the descriptions as he was. Frodo’s shirt was not so fortunate though as to it quickly became wet and stained. 

Frodo lept out of his chair and began to dab at his shirt with a napkin. 

“Oh dear.” Bilbo fussed, hurrying with another napkin to help. “It’s a good thing you brought your clothes with you today, best change your shirt so we can wash this one. The sooner we set it to soak, the more likely the stain will come out.”

Frodo nodded and grabbed his bag, heading to the room Bilbo had pointed out would be his. Quickly shucking the wet shirt off and tossing a new one over his head, he began to button and straighten it. Hearing a shuffle behind him, he glanced up in the mirror, expecting to see Bilbo, or Merry coming to take the stained one. 

Instead he saw someone who was definitely not a Hobbit staring at him through the mirror from the doorframe. Startled, Frodo turned around, but saw no one there. He rushed to the door and looked up at down the hallway, not spotting any retreating figures, or hearing any footsteps. He then closed his eyes, trying to remember what he saw: a dark head of hair, glints of silver just past the shoulders, and bold, blue eyes. He tried to remember more but already his half second glance at the figure was fading away and he felt that he probably imagined the whole thing. 

After all, from what he remembered, the figure he thought he saw looked like the king Bilbo just described. His mind was probably playing tricks on him and he tried to put it out of his mind. 

Finishing buttoning his shirt and adjusting it to look presentable, Frodo wandered back out into the sitting area. Bilbo was describing the dwarves again while Merry drew them to show Pippin later. 

“What about their eye color?” Merry asked. “Do they have beady black eyes like mice?”

“Of course not!” Bilbo huffed. “Honestly, Meriadoc. Most of them had dark brown eyes, like many of your own relatives, though the shades can vary just like Hobbits.”

“The king too?”

“Ah...well,” Bilbo trailed off, brow furrowing and fingers tightening around his cup. “I...I think they were...” He drummed his fingers and wrinkled his nose. “You know.... I can’t seem to recall.” He gave yet another half smile, though this one Frodo felt was pure bitterness.

“They’re blue...” Frodo spoke before he realized what he was saying. When Merry and Bilbo turned to look at him Frodo stumbled over his explanation. “I-I mean, I think you mentioned once that the king had blue eyes.”

Bilbo’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes! Quite right! Blue eyes, like a cloudless summer sky.” He grinned, clearly relieved to have remembered that. “Thank you my dear boy. I must have mentioned the color of his eyes in an earlier tale... They did seem to glow quite fiercely when he realized I was the burglar Gandalf had recommended.” 

Frodo just nodded and Bilbo launched into a new tale, returning to his seat and knowing that his Uncle Bilbo had never mentioned the color of the Dwarf King’s eyes. 

Frodo tried to put the incident out of his mind, and spent several weeks with Uncle Bilbo without further incident. Indeed, it wasn’t till winter passed through the Shire, bringing a blanket of snow and cold, bitter air, that Frodo experienced anything new that Pippin and Merry would classify as a “ghost” sighting.

It was a night that was very, very cold, even inside the usually comfortable smial. Frodo woke huddled beneath his covers, and was reaching down the grab another blanket when he heard a voice down the hall. No, not just one voice.

Two voices.

Frodo got up hesitantly, unsure as to who would be visiting Bilbo at this late hour on such a cold night. Creeping towards the doorway he could just barely make out Bilbo’s voice, though now he could hear clearly that Bilbo was sobbing. 

“I’m so sorry...” Bilbo’s voice muttered, hiccuping at the end. 

A second voice murmured back, voice too soft to hear clearly. Bilbo’s broken sobbing and hiccuping just got louder as Frodo crept down the hall. 

“Please, please....Thorin...” Bilbo choked over the name and Frodo hurried his steps.

The second voice murmured again. 

“I’m here, dear burglar.” 

Frodo stopped in his tracks, sure that he misheard. Creeping quietly, he entered the sitting room. Bilbo was curled up in his arm chair, face covered with both hands and an empty tea mug sitting on the table beside him. On his other side, lying haphazardly on the floor, was an item Frodo had never seen before. A sword, about as long as Frodo’s arm, slightly drawn from its scabbard, and engraved with writing Frodo could not make out in the dim light. 

There was no evidence of the source of the second voice Frodo had just heard. Bilbo started to choke on his sobs again, and Frodo hesitantly knocked on the door frame. 

“Uncle?”

Bilbo’s head shot up out of his hands, catching sight of him immediately. He gave a quiet huff and a large smile. “Oh my boy. What are you doing up at this late hour?” Quickly Bilbo wiped at his eyes. 

“Are you alright, Uncle?” 

“Of course...just got caught up in some old memories. Nothing to worry about.” He puttered through his waistcoat, pulling out a thin handkerchief and finishing clearing the tears from his face. “Now, what’s got you up? The cold? Dreadfully bitter in this hall.... I thought I try to get the fire stoked but instead I became distracted.” He began to move out of the chair, his joints cracking so loudly, that Frodo winced in sympathy. “A good cup of tea should get us sufficiently warmed to drift off again!”

Frodo crossed the room and gently guided his uncle into sitting back into the chair again. “I’ll get it, you just rest here a moment.”

He picked up Bilbo’s cup from earlier, carrying it with him to the kitchen. He filled the kettle and placed it on the stove to boil. Opening up the tea chest, he tried to remember what kinds of tea his Uncle liked best. 

The kettle started to sing and he still couldn’t remember, and he didn’t want to bother Bilbo by asking. Instead he picked out the one that looked newest, a blend of chamomile and green, and turned to take the kettle off the stove. 

As he turned back to grab the tea however, he found that instead of chamomile waiting for him, a blend of lavender and mint was on the counter instead. Frodo furrowed his brow, knowing that he had grabbed chamomile. Glancing around the counter, on top of the now closed chest, and even in the kettle turned up no sign of the tea Frodo knew he had grabbed. 

“Are you alright, Frodo?” Bilbo called.

“Yes I’m fine!” Frodo called back, grabbing the lavender and mint tea on the counter and adding it to the kettle. Grabbing two teacups and the sugar bowl, he headed back into the sitting room, everything balanced perfectly on the tea tray.

He poured Bilbo’s cup first, and then his own, setting the tray down on the table next to his own chair. Bilbo took a sip and smiled softly.

“Ah lavender mint. My favorite. I didn’t think I had any of it left!”

Hastily gulping his own tea, Frodo coughed a bit as the hot liquid slid down his throat. “Ah. Well... it was hidden in with the chamomile.”

“Really? Dreadful stuff that. I keep receiving it as a present from Lobelia and I just use to serve her when she visits. She knows I can’t stand the stuff, but, of course, she can’t stand it either.” Bilbo chuckled a bit and Frodo tried to join in. 

They drank their tea in silence for a bit and the next time Frodo glanced up at his uncle, Bilbo’s tears had completely dried and he looked rather serene, staring into the glow of the fire. 

The shadows behind him though were what captivated Frodo’s attention. 

A shadow seemed to curl around Bilbo, but not in a menacing or scary way. It seemed... warmer... than the other shadows cast by the light of the fire and stayed close to Bilbo, as if it was trying to blanket him in a cocoon of peaceful darkness. 

Bilbo didn’t seem to notice the dark presence behind him, finishing his tea instead and pouring himself another glass. 

“Uncle?”

“Yes my boy?”

“ How...” Frodo trailed off, not entirely sure how to proceed. “How did the king in your stories die?”

Bilbo let out a little noise, a cross between a gasp and and another choked sob, Frodo instantly regretted saying anything. 

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-!” 

“No, no,” Bilbo soothed, taking another sip of tea. “I suppose I never did mention it, and it’s a powerful tale to be sure.” 

Taking a last sip of tea Bilbo started to speak, weaving together a tale of greed and madness and sickness. Of stones and pale orcs and long standing grudges. Of princes dying at the doorstep of their new home and of a king who gave up everything to avenge them. He never looked at Frodo as he spoke, staring instead into the fire, as if the flames were illustrating the story he spoke. The tea grew cold and the sky started to lighten in the windows by the time Bilbo was done. 

“And the king. Did you forgive him?” Frodo asked when it was clear his uncle's story was done.

“Whatever for?” Bilbo questioned. 

“...for hanging you off the edge of the battlements and calling you traitor when you were trying to help him.” Frodo reminded him.

“Oh my dear boy, weren’t you listening. He was sick! I could hardly hold that against him.” Bilbo sniffed. “Besides, the silly dwarf apologized as he lay dy...” Bilbo cut himself off. “As he laid on the ice. Something about leading me into such danger.” Bilbo huffed out a little laugh, getting up to gather the cold tea and place everything back on the tray. “Following him into danger is a decision I shall never regret.”

“Even though you faced life threatening dangers?” And heartbreaking loss, but Frodo kept that to himself.

“Yes, because there were rewards too. Some experiences are worth more than jewels or gold. And they are always worth risking everything for.” 

Bilbo then glanced out the window. Frodo looked too and saw the lightening sky, the polished wood frame of the window starting to glow pink in the sunrise. Bilbo let out a huff, “Well... I think it might do us well to start first breakfast. I don’t believe either of us will be venturing out in this cold weather anyway, so we can catch some sleep later in the morning.”

Little of interest passed for the rest of the morning but, from that day on, Frodo seemed to have more and more unexplained instances. They would be little things that could be explained away by any reasonable hobbit, but something niggled at Frodo that these instances were things that should not be explained away. 

He began to notice that Bilbo occasionally seemed to have an extra shadow following him around. A taller, broader shadow than his own hobbit-y sized one. But the shadow was never malicious or seemed threatening, and indeed, could be explained away as a trick of the light. 

Or on the few occasions he was left in the house alone while Bilbo went to have a smoke in the garden with Gandalf, there would be the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hallway, though there would be no one there when Frodo looked up from his book. 

Once, when Bilbo was out fetching the Shire healer, and Frodo laid ill in bed, he woke up, though his mind was sluggish and his eyes bleary. He felt someone place a cool hand on his cheek, then his forehead. He tried to open his eyes wider, but the most he could make out was a dark shape above him. He figured it must have been Bilbo, if not that the hand on his forehead was much, much bigger than Bilbo’s. But it was cool, and gentle, and lugged him back into a state of semi consciousness. He thought he heard quiet giggling and the sounds of dishes being cleaned, or perhaps tossed, down the hallway. He fell back asleep, lulled by the sounds of a quiet but cheerful tune ending with what sounded like “That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!”

When he next woke, Bilbo was sitting next to him and holding his hand, the healer on the otherside mixing up some sort of tonic to drink. The healer noticed the Frodo was awake and started to gently scold him for trying to do the dishes while sick.

Frodo stared at him in utter confusions and Bilbo explained that they had come back with the dishes cleaned and nicely stacked and figured that Frodo had gotten up in his delirium to do the dishes. Frodo just shook his head, but let the healer force the tonic down his throat, putting him back to sleep. 

He and Bilbo never mentioned it again.

Years passed in similar manner. The “incidents” never worsened, but happened with enough frequency that Frodo considered them normal. Occasionally a book would go missing, only to turn up in a long unused storage room (though Frodo did note with some curiosity that it was usually only the books on elves that tended to go missing. Only once did a book written in an old hobbitish dialect disappear, and Bilbo complained loudly and stomped around until it eventually reappeared at his desk, as if it never had the audacity to go missing in the first place. Frodo could only conclude that the calligraphic text looked enough like elvish to be lumped in with the elvan books). 

There were times that Frodo would catch glimpses of a dark figure or two blue eyes staring at him from the corner of his eye. Occasionally the shadows around behind Bilbo would grow darker, but never enough to be much of a concern (except once, when Frodo spotted Bilbo staring at something in his hand. Then the shadows seemed to grow and darken and Frodo stumbled into a doorframe in shock. Bilbo quickly put whatever it was into his pocket, Frodo only catching a hint of gold. The malicious shadows disappeared as if they were never there.) 

Frodo never mentioned these instances to his friends, and not only because he feared that Merry and Pippin would probably set up “ghost traps” (Pippin, at least, had still not outgrown childish stories and Merry was still mischievous enough to go along with him). It was because he felt that, the...whatever it was - shadow, presence, or trick of the light -- was here for Bilbo alone, and so he had no business gossiping Bilbo and the spirit’s private business around Hobbiton. Not that anyone would believe him anyway. 

Eventually, Frodo’s 33rd (and Bilbo’s 111th) birthday arrived and Bilbo left the Shire with neither a word nor a glance backwards. Frodo didn’t mind too much though; he had felt that his uncle had been saying goodbye for a long time. 

Not long after Gandalf left for errands untold, Frodo stayed up in his room, alone in the house for the first time in what felt like forever. The darkness seemed to swallow more corners of the room than it ever had before and he felt a pressing need to keep a candle burning or else he too would be swallowed. 

Clutching his covers and internally debating the idea of just going to sleep in the sitting room where the fireplace would still cast a warm glow to fight away the oppressing night, he found himself calling out to the one thing he had sworn to never name, lest it become real. 

“Master Thorin?” 

Silence answered. No creaking of wooden floorboards under heavy boots, no thick shadows or tall figures or blue eyes, not even the whiff of unusual tobacco smoke or hot iron that Frodo could occasionally smell. 

Frodo found the silence more frightening than a sound would have been. He gathered his covers and headed for the sitting room, settling in what would always be Bilbo’s chair and drifting off into an uncomfortable sleep. 

Sleeping in an unusually quiet and dark Bag End became a tolerable endeavor, though before the month was out, Frodo found that Bag end was becoming more, well definitely not ‘lively’ but perhaps louder. 

It began with the sounds of voices laughing down a hallway. Two voices, neither as deep as the one Frodo had heard that night years ago now that had whispered assurances to Bilbo. These voices sounded younger. 

At first, Frodo had been certain that Merry and Pippin were playing tricks on him. He had even gone down to confront them one day after arriving home from the market one day and finding that all of the furniture in the sitting room had been rearranged and the dishes were stacked on the table in the most precarious manner. However, he arrived to Merry’s house and found that they were both babysitting several of Merry’s cousins, and had been all afternoon and so could not have been the ones to do so. Sam reckoned that some thrifty fauntlings had done it, but Frodo pointed out that the chairs and tables were much too heavy to have been moved by mere fauntlings. 

Finally, Frodo was forced to recognize that though Bilbo’s ghost-friend must have gone with him to live with the elves (and Frodo was fairly certain that the spirit was none too happy about that given the number of times the Elf books had gone “missing”), he had left behind, or called upon, two more presences to keep on eye on Frodo. Though Frodo resented the idea that he had to be watched over, he did appreciate the company, invisible though it was. Then he berated himself for being ridiculous and went to go rearrange the chairs again from their currently upside down position. 

(He did silently thank though that his two apparent poltergeists and his two mischievous cousins did not, and would never, meet each other “face to face.” The Shire would never be peaceful again.) 

Of course, whatever peace that could be found in the Shire was shattered when Gandalf came back, harried and with an air of doom as he beckoned Frodo to toss the ring into the fire. The mysterious lettering round the sides were not only a sign of the evil brewing in Mordor, but a sign to the end of Frodo’s relatively simple and untroubled life as an innocent hobbit. 

Then he and Sam were off, running into Merry and Pippin on the way, quite literally. Making their way over little rivers and hills, they eventually arrived at Bree. And Frodo finally discovered what that little ring of Bilbo’s did. 

Later, much later, as they lay half awake waiting for the Nazgul to take Strider’s bait, Frodo sat in bed wondering about the ring. He could almost feel it whispering to him. a deep whispering voice. 

Could it have been the ring, not Thorin the king, who has been haunting Bilbo all these years?

No, Frodo decided. He remembered that voice from the night by the fire. His childhood filled with the brooding, but generally benign presence that followed Bilbo around like a shadow. The presence was nothing like the ring that now weighed heavily in his pocket. 

They left Bree soon after, not having the time to wait for Gandalf and Frodo remembered little from the trip except the Ringwraith’s Morgul-blade piercing his shoulder. When he again woke, he was in Rivendell. 

Bilbo appeared much, much older than when Frodo had last seen him; it seemed more years had passed for Bilbo than they had for Frodo. Bilbo’s story was finished, and Frodo read it eagerly while he healed, and then while Gandalf told him to wait while Elrond gathered the races of Middle Earth for a meeting regarding the very ring Frodo had brought. 

And then of course, someone had to carry the ring, and Frodo volunteered, though he wasn’t sure why.

“My old sword, Sting. Take it! Take it,” Bilbo said as he passed him a blade that was so light, Frodo wondered if it were made of painted wood rather than metal. 

“It’s so light!”

Bilbo nodded, “Ah yes, made by the elves. The blade glows blue when orcs are near.” He looked up at Frodo, as serious as Frodo had ever seen him. “It’s at those times, my lad, you must be very careful.” He then turned and picked up another item. A shirt that glistened in the fading sun and draped from Bilbo’s hands like pure silver. 

“Mithril.” Bilbo stated simply as he handed it over. “Light as a feather, tough as dragon scales.” He grinned, “Go on, try it on!”

Frodo huffed as his uncle’s enthusiasm and began to unbutton his shirt. However, he watched as Bilbo caught sight of the ring. His voice dropped to a strained whisper. 

“Oh... my old ring.” He directed the words at Frodo but continued to stare at the ring. “I should very much like to hold it...one more time.”

Frodo hesitated, remembering all that had been said about the ring at the meeting. He then started to button up his shirt to hide the ring again. 

Quick as lightening, Bilbo’s face morphed into a grotesque parody of his uncle. Frodo jumped back as the horror reached for him, which seemed to shock Bilbo out of his madness.

“Oh... Oh, my boy.” Bilbo clutched his head. “Oh I am so sorry that you must bear this burden.” He turned, his shoulders heaving as he started to sob. “I-I’m sorry for everything.” 

Frodo couldn’t help it. He reached out and put a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, offering comfort as best he could. Bilbo reached up and took his hand as tears continued to spill out. 

On the eve before the fellowship was to leave, Frodo couldn’t sleep. Getting up out of bed he crept towards the door to the sitting room he shared with Bilbo. He rubbed his eyes, and opened the door softly. Then he noticed that there was a light from a roaring fireplace and, as his eyes adjusted, he saw his uncle sitting in an armchair near the fire. Frodo was about to ask if they both needed an extra cup before bed when he heard a deep voice, one which did not belong to his uncle. 

“I promise.”

Choking on a gasp, Frodo’s hand went up to where the ring was hidden beneath his night shirt. But no, that was not the deep voiced whispers he heard sometimes ever since he accidentally put on the ring. The voices that whispered whenever the silence became too loud. 

The voice was familiar and Frodo struggled to place it as Bilbo’s choked voice rang out. “Watch over him, Thorin. Please. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t ask this of you, but please.”

“You may ask anything of me, my dear burglar. I promise.” The deep voice said again. Bilbo didn’t seem to hear as he continued to sob. 

Frodo remembered a scene similar to this one just a few short years ago, when he had first came under the care of Bilbo. The voice was the very same. 

Frodo backed away from the door and returned to bed. He thought he would toss and turn for the rest of the night, but with thoughts of Bilbo, the Ring, and a long dead dwarven king running around in his head, Frodo somehow managed to fall asleep.

He didn’t have much time to think of Bilbo while on the quest, though as the Ring grew heavier and heavier, he wondered how Bilbo was able to avoid becoming as mad as Gollum earlier. Was it because the ring was weaker back then? Or because Bilbo had not known its true value, or had only seen it as a pretty trinket with magical abilities that helped him avoid nosy gossips. Or, could Bilbo’s love for his friends and family have been what dissuaded him from the temptations the ring offered. Frodo knew Bilbo loved him more as a son than the nephew/uncle relationship they had at the beginning of Frodo’s life. And, if Frodo was being honest, perhaps it was Bilbo’s tragic love for Thorin Oakenshield that kept the ring from poisoning his mind during his decades of grief. 

Afterall, most days it seemed like it was merely Sam’s love and companionship that was what kept Frodo from giving into the ring’s desires. 

After months of trials, tribulations and near starvation, he and Sam were finally on the slopes of Mt. Doom. Making their way slowly up the mountain side, Frodo felt as if it was no longer a small ring around his neck, but a weight as heavy as the mountain itself. How could he be expected to carry such a weight any farther. He stumbled and fell and he heard, rather than saw Sam stumble behind him. He scrambled to go further, and over the roaring of the fire in his mind's eye, and the whisper of the ring around his neck, he could just make out a voice urging him forward. But his grip failed and he fell, his mind growing fuzzy. He thought the voice sounded familiar, like the voice that used to talk to Bilbo in front of the fire.

Then the wheel of fire roared and the Ring’s whispering grew louder and it was all Frodo could do to just see Sam’s worried face above him, describing everything that’s waiting for them. But Frodo could no longer remember what a strawberry even looked like, much less how it tasted with cream. He said as much to Sam, though he feared that he may have been raving instead. 

Then he only remembers flashes of the scenery passing by, as he seemed to move up the mountain, but not by his own power. He gratefully let Sam help share in this burden, as Frodo could no longer do so.

Gollum was there though, and his surprise attack on Sam jolted Frodo out of his daze long enough to scramble the last few feet to the entrance. 

After reaching the precipice though, Frodo felt his mind start to cloud and his thoughts scattered. It was as if he was watching himself from far away. A mere observer as he turned away from throwing the ring into the molten lava far below, and, against Sam’s desperate pleas, slipped the ring onto his finger. 

Obsessed as he was with the ring, he too didn’t see Gollum again until it was too late. The scuffle for the ring happened fast, then they were both falling. A split second decision and he grasped the ledge, watching in horror as Gollum fell into the lava below, still reaching for his precious even as the flames consumed him. 

Above Sam was reaching for him, and, just for a second Frodo contemplated letting go. The ring had not yet been swallowed by the fire, he could still reach it in time. To hold it, to burn together. Just him and his ring. 

“Don’t you let go!” Sam shouted. Frodo looked up at him. Sam tried to reach just a little farther. “Don’t let go.” He strained his arm. “Reach!” 

Frodo swung his body, the momentum giving him extra lift as he grasped Sam’s hand with his injured one. Somehow, though as tired and weak as Frodo, Sam managed to pull him over the ledge, and together they ran for the exit as the mountain erupted behind them. 

Frodo was exhausted, sure that despite everything, despite destroying the ring, he and Sam would still never see the shire as the lava poured around them and the temperature just continued to rise. 

Of course though, like out of one of Bilbo’s old stories, the eagles arrived, plucking them from their narrow rock and flying them to safety. Frodo shortly thereafter blacked out. 

He awoke to a bright white light, and a welcome, if not a little startling Gandalf at the foot of his bed. He couldn’t help but laugh out of happiness for the first time in what seemed like forever. Gandalf joined in and the door opened to the welcoming sight of Merry, Pippin. Gimli, Aragorn and Legolas followed soon after. 

Sam was hesitant in the doorway as if unsure if his presence would be welcome. 

Merry and Pippin spent the rest of the day recounting their adventures. Frodo could see that though they both grinned throughout it all, their eyes had seen horrors, much like he and Sam had. They had all grown up, and would never again be the four young hobbits who had left the Shire just short while ago. 

Later, after Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas and Gandalf had left, the four of them remained curled up on Frodo’s (unnecessarily large, Bilbo would say) bed. 

Merry and Pippin were dozing, exhausted from their own story telling, while Frodo found that he couldn’t sleep. Though the image that seemed burned into his vision of Sauron had faded with the destruction of the ring. he feared what he would see in his dreams. 

“Mr. Frodo?” he heard Sam whisper, as if afraid he would be waking Frodo up.

“Yes, Sam,” Frodo whispered back. 

Sam shuffled closer. “Do you remember... when we were faunts? Had all these adventures around the Shire? I was just thinking.... real adventures are not the same as pretend. Even when you do get to go home to a filling meal and a good fireplace in the Shire, real adventures leave a mark on you... We won’t be the same when we go back, will we?”

Frodo shrugged, careful not to dislodge Pippin who was curled up on his shoulder like a faunt himself. “I don’t think we are the same people we were as faunts either Sam. We are always growing and changing. Maybe our fauntling adventures did leave marks on us, we just got used to seeing them everyday. Maybe this will become like that too.” Frodo rather doubted it, but it didn’t hurt to try.

Sam let out a huff of air. “Do you remember when those two believed Bag End was haunted by a ghost?”

Frodo’s heart skipped a beat, and he suddenly remembered the voice that had urged him on while on the slopes of Mt. Doom. “Yes, Sam.”

He thought Sam had finally drifted off when a sharp intake of breath told him he had not. “Frodo... when- when we were on Mt. Doom.... I-” He cut himself off. “Never mind, it’s nothing.”

Frodo reached out and touched his friend’s hand. “It’s not nothing. You can tell me.” Yavanna knows Frodo had not been a good friend to Sam at all for the past few months. He hoped he would be able to make up for it now. 

Sam hesitated, seeming to mull over his words before continuing. “At the time, I thought it was just an illusion or something. We were both starving and thirsty and desperate. Could have seen anything. But... when you had fallen and I told you about the Shire....”

“I’m still waiting for those strawberries with cream.” Frodo remarked, and was rewarded with a chuckle before Sam continued.

“I don’t know how much you remembered, you were pretty out of it.” Sam took the hand Frodo had reached out with and gave it a squeeze. “I told you that I couldn’t carry the ring, but I could carry you. I had my doubts though whether I could or not. I was nearly as weak as you were, though I had not been carrying such a burden, and I thought for sure I would drop you. But, it was like a strength went through me that wasn’t my own. It was as if a presence was reminding me of the strength I had and was helping me draw it out. I couldn’t have made it as far without that extra burst of energy.” He sighed. “It’s just...Merry and Pippin’s story of the ghosts that had come out to help Aragorn got me thinking... what if the reason Hobbit’s don’t believe in ghosts is because there are no Hobbit ghosts. But if there are ghosts of men cursed to wander the earth... what if there were other races as well? And some of them helped me that day.”

Frodo turned his head and gave his friend a grin. “I have the utmost faith that you could have gotten me up that mountain all on your own Sam, so don’t downplay your own heroism.”

Sam looked away. “You were the one who carried the burden Mr. Frodo. I was just there to make sure you ate and slept on your way there.”

“I said it before and I’ll say it again.” Frodo said, squeezing his hand. “Frodo couldn’t have gotten very far without Sam.” 

“What about Merry and Pippin?” Pippin mumbled from his shoulder. “Don’t forget us.”

Frodo laughed, and Merry snorted in a the middle of a snore as he awoke as well. “Of course not. Merry and Pippin were the brave knights of the Shire.” 

Pippin smiled and grabbed onto the cover more tightly. “Does Sam think the ghost of Bag End helped him? Cause I think Merry and I had help too.”

Merry nodded. “Felt like someone always pointed us in the right direction to get us right where we needed to be.”

Frodo remembered the two mischievous spirits that had occupied Bag End after Bilbo had left. It seemed that Merry and Pippin were able to meet those spirits as well after all. Frodo was still thankful though that the dangers of the time prevented any extraordinary pranking to commence. 

“Well.” Frodo stated loudly, his voice pitched upwards in a passing parody of Lobelia “I think you are all quite mad and not proper hobbits at all. Believing in ghosts and going on adventures, how truly un-hobbit like of you!” 

Pippin laughed and sat up, grabbing one of the large pillows from the bed and whacking Frodo with it. “That’s not how you do it at all!” He pitched his own voice up an octave. “The whole Baggins name is simply ruined now. Three generations of adventurers! The utter scandal of it all, I shall have to wash Bag End out three times just to get rid of the lingering shame!” 

Merry barked out a laugh as well. “Don’t forget the silver spoons Mrs. Sackville-Baggins!” he shouted as he whacked Pippin in the face with his own pillow. 

Soon all four of them were awake and laughing, even Sam, trying to bludgeon each other on the overly soft pillows in the overly large bed. Finally the heater walked in and told all of them sternly that Frodo was still a recovering patient and that if they all didn’t settle down, he would thrown them all out. 

They calmed down though this time Merry and Pippin fell asleep towards the foot of the bed, finding whatever covers the could wrap themselves in while still holding on to each other. Sam and Frodo shared the covers at the head of the bed. 

Sam fell asleep shortly after Merry and Pippin, Frodo struggled against calm of sleep for just a moment longer. He thought of what he said to Sam, about the scars of adventures healing and becoming a part of them. His shoulder still throbbed, though he had hope that he could learn to live with the pain. 

In the end though, time could not heal all wounds. Though his and his friends physical scars healed, the wound from the morgul blade continued to ache, and his head often felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. Some days he could hardly get out of bed, while on others he at least made it to the bench outside for a pipe. 

Sam, of course, tried to help, but then he had Rosie and shortly thereafter children to raise. 

Frodo began work on his own story, and with each page filled he felt more and more like everything was coming to an end. 

He mentioned this very feeling to Gandalf late one night, and the wizard told him of the Elves ship to the undying lands, and their offer to Bilbo, which was to be extended to Frodo as well. Frodo mentioned that he would have to think on it, though he knew what his decision would be. From the look in Gandalf’s eyes, he knew as well. 

And so it came to be that the four hobbits from the Fellowship traveled once more from the Shire, though this time, only three would be returning. 

Merry and Pippin cried, as Frodo knew they would, and Sam, of course, took it badly. Frodo left him the book, encouraging him to write his own story for Sam’s story was not yet finished, not with a half dozen faunts at home and another on the way. Frodo wished that Sam’s fauntlings would go have their own adventures like their Papa and Uncle Frodo, though he also wished that they never strayed far from home. 

With one last look at his friends he turned, and boarded the ship. He tried not to look back at the dock where he knew Sam would be staring back. 

Bilbo had taken a seat near the bow of the ship, leaning against the rail with his eyes closed. He almost looked dead, though Frodo watched for the steady puffs of air. 

They passed the tall gates of the grey havens and finally Frodo allowed himself to turn around, though he could no longer see Sam nor the dock, he knew that they were still there. He felt no regret for leaving, just sad for those he was leaving behind. Then a mist closed around them, and the shoreline of Middle Earth was no more. 

Two hands clapped his shoulders and Frodo startled. The hands were smaller than Gandalf’s and the grip was much to informal to be an elfs and too strong to be Bilbo’s. Frodo jerked back, nearly falling off a stairway, but those same pairs of hands steadied him on his feet. 

“Woah there cousin!” One grinning face, surrounded by a frame of dark hair, said, clapping him again on the back and gripping tight. “Can’t have you falling off and bumping your head there, you’re journey’s just started! That’d be an awful way to go!”

“Like you’d know!” The other grinning face said, this one surrounded in a halo of gold. “You’re grip’s probably strangling him anyway.”

Frodo gulped. “um...um...wait...what?”

The two backed away, and Frodo could finally get a good look at them. Shorter than elves but taller than himself. With rounded ears and bearded faces, their overall stature reminded him of Gimli. But he didn’t remember any dwarves getting on board.

“Aww... don’t tell us Uncle Boggin’s forgot to mention us in his stories? I’m the brave one!” the dark haired one whined and the lighter haired one, ruffled his hair. 

“More like the forgetful one. Who's the dwarf who lost the ponies, eh, Kili?”

“You were there too, Fili!”

Frodo realized with a start that these were Thorin Oakenshield’s nephews. “But.... You’re dead... how... how are you here?”

“We’ve always been there... it’s just now you can see us!” The brunet, Kili, answered. Which didn’t really answer Frodo’s question at all. 

“We’re not entirely sure of the why and how either.” Fili said gently, noticing Frodo’s growing apprehension. “It’s just the way it is.” He said it with a nod and Frodo found himself nodding along side him, though still confused. 

Then another thought occured. They had always been there? “Wait... you... you were the two who kept moving my furniture around!”

“Ah, now he gets it!” Kili laughed. “We thought you could use the exercise. It was so boring there otherwise.”

“Plus the furniture needs a good rearranging now and then, otherwise it’ll develop ruts in the floor.”

“You scratched the floor.” Frodo muttered, though Fili and Kili pretended not to hear. Instead they were looking over Frodo’s shoulder and Frodo turned to look as well. 

Behind him, the Elves on board and Gandalf were observing yet another strange stowaway on their vessel. Kneeling in front of a still sleeping Bilbo was a dwarf taller than any Frodo had seen. His raven hair was streaked with silver, and his gaze was gentle as he brushed a wisp of hair away from Bilbo’s face. 

“My dear Burglar.” 

The mist began to disperse, and with it the years seemed to dissipate from Bilbo as well. His wrinkles became smooth, and his hair thickened and lightened, growing golden in the now cloudless sky. His nose twitched in a way Frodo was so familiar with that he knew instantly that his uncle was waking up. 

And indeed, Bilbo blinked, his eyes changing from the milky white of age to a deep dark blue again. He seemed to spot Thorin and he smiled. 

“What a lovely dream,” he mumbled as he reached for the dwarf. 

Thorin let out a startled gasp as Bilbo’s hand made contact with his cheek. “It’s not a dream my love. I am here.”

Bilbo frowned. “Of course it is a dream. You’re dead an--” he stopped as he seemed to realize where he was, with the Elves, Gandalf and Frodo watching him. He then glanced at his own hand on Thorin’s face. He rubbed it gently and let out a gasp of his own when Thorin reached up to mirror the gesture. “Thorin?”

“I am right here, my burglar. I never left your side.” Thorin gave a hesitant smile. 

Suddenly it was if a dam broke and and Bilbo reached out desperately to hug the dwarf, Thorin grasped back just as fiercely. “I am so sorry Bilbo. I am so, so sorry.”

“No, no. It’s not your fault Thorin.” Bilbo whispered back. “Truly, it’s not your fault.”

Bilbo leaned back from the embrace but did not let go. He had eyes for Thorin only, as he brushed the hair away from the dwarf king’s face. “Oh... my love.” Then he kissed Thorin, and the dwarf dragged Bilbo nearly into his lap as he kissed right back. 

Frodo felt his cheeks reddened and he hurriedly looked away. Honestly, it was one thing to know that Bilbo and Thorin must have been in love, but it was quite another to actually see it. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but Frodo remembered that he felt the same way whenever his parents kissed in front of him when he was younger. It was just weird. He stole a glimpse back and they were still going at it. How were they even breathing?!

“Oi! I think you are injuring poor Frodo’s delicate sensibilities over here!” Fili shouted.

“Not to mention my own delicate sensibilities!” Kili shouted as well, and Frodo saw that his face was covered by his hands. 

“You don’t have a thing about you that’s delicate!” Frodo heard Bilbo laugh back. “Oh my boy,” he then addressed Bilbo. “I am so sorry....”

“It’s fine!” Frodo hurriedly reassured. “It’s just weird... it’s like seeing my parents kissing.”

Bilbo blushed but Thorin just held on tighter until his uncle managed to clear his throat. 

“Ah yes... well.... anyway. Frodo, I’d like you to meet Thorin Oakenshield.”

Frodo held out his hand. “I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.”

Thorin smiled. “Watching you grow up has been an honor,” he said as he shook Frodo’s hand.

“Excuse me?” Bilbo questioned. 

Well, that answered Frodo’s half wonderment over whether Bilbo had known his own house was haunted.

“As I said, my burglar, I never left. I have been at your side as much as that form allowed me too.”

With a startled gasp, Frodo knew that Bilbo understood. Then he huffed and seemed to lean into Thorin a little more. “Well, I guess Lobelia did get the door slammed on her.”

“More than once.” Thorin muttered dryly.

“I assume that we are to have three additional passengers on our voyage today?” a voice behind them said, and they turned to see Elrond gazing at them, not judging the dwarves presence, merely making a rhetorical observation. 

“We were always here, weren’t you listening?” Thorin grumbled out, then grunted as Bilbo elbowed him. 

“If that is okay with you, Elrond,” Bilbo said graciously, “Of course if it isn’t you may let us off here and we’ll just have to swim back to middle earth.”

Galadriel let out a chuckle as Elrond merely shook his head. “The dwarves are welcome to stay. I have a feeling they are not the first dwarvish stowaways to the Undying Lands, and nor shall they be the last. Though.... the last one will be the only one to still be among the living when he travels.” 

The last part Elrond said mostly to himself, though Frodo had a feeling he knew who that would be. 

Frodo spent the rest of the voyage with Fili and Kili, watching the two dwarves as they attempted to catch some of the salt water spray with their hands. On the other side of the deck, Bilbo and Thorin sat close, heads bent together, not speaking but merely enjoying each other's presence. 

Finally, Fili shouted that he saw land up ahead, Kili eagerly endorsing his brother’s belief. Frodo looked as well as the thin shoreline steadily grew bigger, and soon docks, and then people, the other elves, came into view. 

Bilbo and Thorin stood at the prow holding hands as the ship slowed in its preparation to dock. 

Fili and Kili though couldn’t wait and dived overboard to swim to shore, Kili half waving, half swimming. As Frodo looked at the shore line, he saw a red haired elf wave back before gracefully swan diving into the water herself to meet them. 

Frodo could only shake his head, once again partially grateful that Fili and Kili were never able to physically meet Merry and Pippin. If these two mischievous dwarves were able to get a full grown elf to act like a fauntling, Yavanna knows what they could do to two hobbits already bent on causing trouble. 

“Frodo?” Bilbo called, holding out his hand. 

Frodo smiled and took it, following Bilbo and Thorin as they stepped off the boat, and onto the undying lands. As his feet met with sand, he felt his aches and pains lift away, and his mind seemed clearer than it had in ages. He ran ahead, intent on asking Fili and Kili who their friend was, but he turned back for just a moment.

Thorin and Bilbo were again kissing, though this time it didn’t seem as weird as it had before. I was sweet, Frodo thought. 

He had thought Bilbo’s love was always a tragic story. But... perhaps love is never a tragedy, and death only puts it on pause till two people can be reunited. 

But most of all he was glad, so glad, that dwarves had just the right amount of superstitious stubbornness to continue to cling to the world of the living in a way that Hobbits just couldn’t. He figured that the tale of the Ghost of Bag End would continue to thrive in the shire, long after the ghost was no longer a ghost at all, finally reunited with his one true love.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this has been mulling around for quite some time. I'm not completely 100% happy with it, but I'm also not entirely sure what would make me completely happy with it. But that doesn't mean I'm not proud of it. I started this story nearly half a year ago when I was still working two jobs to make ends meet, when one day I was shelving product and the line occurred to me "Hobbits are really quite practical creatures, and to them Ghosts simply did not exist. Too bad no one thought to inform the ghost of Bag End of his non-existence." Hence was the start of this story, that I started over again and again trying to get the telling of it right. Then my one job became a full time career and I suddenly found myself with no time and less inspiration to write. Until recently. 
> 
> As such, the tone of the story kind of jumps around a bit. Is it supposed to be kid fic? Humor? Retrospective? Sad? Angst? I'm still not sure, but I am content with the end result.


End file.
